Talk Tonight
by Azertyrobaz
Summary: Where was this coming from? She could shag whoever she liked, as far as he was concerned. And she probably did. It was kind of her job, no matter how PC the word 'escort' might sound.


**A/N**: So instead of focusing on my WIP, I decided to write this oneshot. Rest assured that _Puncture Repair_ and _Gravity_ are coming along nicely, but this story wouldn't leave me. Clara Oswald's back in Malcom Tucker universe, but in a different setting than the one I developed in my previous stories. I might choose to revisit this world later on, but for now it's a oneshot. As always, feel free to comment and review. Hope you enjoy.

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><p><span><strong>Talk Tonight<strong>

_Sitting on my own, chewing on a bone_

_A thousand million miles from home_

_When something hit me,_

_Somewhere right between the eyes_

(Noel Gallagher, _The Masterplan_)

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><p>The Russian delegation. As though he didn't have enough on his <em>fucking<em> plate already with the looming by-election he was supposed to plan. Hacked off because his ideas hadn't earned him the gratitude they had apparently deserved at the last G8 summit, the Prime Minister had decided that they should start over three months later, and on their turf this time. Unfortunately, only Russia turned up to what was mockingly referred to as the Go2 Hell summit in Whitehall. With no clear direction or aim, the talks had quickly turned into absurdly expensive staring contests and the Russian envoy had left after two days (with hopefully some pictures of Big Ben he would be able to show his kids at home, at least).

The poorly planned summit had turned into a massive fiasco coupled with a national embarrassment. And since the PM had insisted on doing everything 'proper', his office now had to deal with the delegation that had been left behind and refused to leave the country before their allotted five days were over. Allotted in the sense that they were currently staying at one of the capital's poshest hotels. And really, who could blame them? Why go home to a freezing country where the only relief could be found at the bottom of a Vodka bottle at this time of year when you could do more or less the same here?

Malcolm looked at the bottom of his own glass in consternation. He was just about to ask for a second round of 18 years Highland Park when he saw someone coming down the darkened staircase. He knew very well what was up there but he hadn't thought anyone would appear so soon. Especially not a girl. He was supposed to call them 'escorts', which at least sounded a lot better than most of the other words he could think of. But somehow, for this girl in particular, those crude words didn't reach the surface of his subconscious. He'd noticed her earlier on, of course. Apart from the heavy make-up and revealing dress, she didn't look like she belonged in such a place, as high end as it was. In the end, no matter what people insisted on calling it – club, lounge, select bar – it was still a brothel. And no matter how classy or luxurious the bedrooms were upstairs, they were still there. He'd seen them for himself, after all.

The place was pretty much empty tonight, a week night in the middle of January, and still she chose to come and sit a couple of bar stools from him. He tensed up - he hadn't come for that. He hadn't even come to talk to anyone. He was just the designated babysitter. Malcolm could pretend that he had fought tooth and nails to avoid coming here, but that would be a lie. He had wanted an out from Downing Street. This was the perfect place to feel sorry for himself and internally moan about the current state of the government. Fortunately, the swanky bar had some decent whiskies. Unfortunately, the expensive stereo system emitted a booming rhythm that had Malcolm worry he might have an epileptic fit. This evening was in no way enjoyable. And the girl's presence now merely added weight to that statement.

"Are you the driver, then?" she asked him out of the blue, in a clear voice that managed to cover the dreadful soundtrack of this inner hell. Malcolm raised his eyes and found hers in the huge mirror across from the bar.

"What?" Her question had startled him so much that he'd forgotten about his resolution not to talk to anyone.

"Are you the driver?" she repeated, nodding her head towards the ceiling, "They usually stay in the car. Or come upstairs. Depends on the money they're paying, I guess."

"They're not the ones paying," he replied to his empty glass. Her unblinking stare was unnerving. That and her cleavage.

"So who's paying?"

"Actually, your tax money," he pointed out with a smirk.

She raised a finely sculpted eyebrow in wonder but didn't press him. Which was certainly nice of her. Although he realised that he wouldn't have minded. Not really.

"Frank, could you turn that thing down?" she asked the barman, "The place is deserted tonight, and it's making me bonkers."

Blissful relief. The headache inducing beat had been almost cut off.

"Thanks, my ears finally stopped bleeding," he said, his gaze on her face once more, and he congratulated himself for not letting his eyes drop lower. This time, at least.

"You're welcome."

She stood up and came to sit down closer to him. Malcolm tried not to show how uneasy it made him feel. But he guessed it was part of her job to come downstairs and see if anyone was interested in more than a stupidly expensive beverage. He knew that things didn't necessarily have to lead to sex. The room above them had its own bar and dance floor – if you could call it that. Some men only came here to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman who could pretend to be interested in their pathetically simple and miserable life. A woman who wasn't their wife. But he just wanted to be left alone, tonight. And he guessed that the few other patrons scattered around the bar with him had also already been approached by escorts and rebuffed.

"Look, I'm not looking for any..."

"Any what?" she cut in bluntly. But her tone wasn't reproachful. It was inquisitive. "You think I'd be offering anything for free?"

He felt foolish and about two inches tall. No one provoked that kind of reaction in him. That was definitely not a feeling he wished to experience on a regular basis. And now he wanted to unsettle her in turn. Just so that he could go back to his drink in peace.

"What if _I _were to offer you something?" he asked, his face impassive but his voice determined.

"Oh yeah?" she said, clearly nonplussed, "And what would that be?"

She'd probably heard something along those lines before. About a thousand times, even. And Malcolm took surprising pleasure in appraising in the mirror how her relaxed posture of a few seconds ago had distinctly changed in subtle ways. She had hunched her shoulders and her eyes no longer held mischievousness in them. She looked weary and bored.

"A drink?"

"What?" she muttered, frowning.

"Or is that not allowed? Men can pay for any sexual favour upstairs but here I can't pay for a drink?"

She glared at him for a while, then seemed to reconsider the answer she wanted to give him in the first place.

"It's not _any _sexual favour..."

"Pity," he interjected.

"...and it's not only _men_ that are paying for them."

He smiled slightly, glad that she hadn't fallen into his trap and wished to carry on playing. Because they weren't talking. Not really.

"So, can I buy you a drink then?"

"Sure, why not."

"What would you like?"

"Why don't you guess?"

"Guess what you like?" She nodded, quite taken with the idea of making him work for her answer and pay for his cheek.

"I don't know you, darling. How would I know what you like?"

"Well, first of all, you can stop calling me 'darling'. And second, you're probably going to be here for a while if you intend to wait for your clients to come down, so why not use that time to do something fun?"

"Playing twenty questions with you doesn't sound like much fun, to be honest."

"Since you don't want to fuck me and that seems to be the only thing you think I'm capable of, I'm pretty sure talking is the only _fun_ alternative that we have." Malcolm definitely perked up at her use of profanity, especially in that context, but she didn't let on whether she saw his reaction.

"They're not my clients, by the way. I'm their nanny. Which is the only reason why I'm not _fucking_ you right now, as you so eloquently put it."

"Is that your actual job title?" she countered, "And more importantly, are you on the same salary as a fifteen year old girl?"

He had to hand it to her, she was good at this. Whatever _this_ actually was. Malcolm casually turned towards her, sensing that having their gazes meet across a mirror no longer quite cut it. He wanted to get a better feel of this quick-witted girl. Casting his eyes more closely over her, he realised that he should perhaps stop calling her a girl. She was a bit older than he had first thought. The heavy make-up was less of a distraction from up close and he appreciated the almost invisible lines which were starting to appear on her forehead and at the corner of her mouth. Who the fuck was he kidding? She was still at least two decades younger than him. Nevertheless, she looked wiser than the other escorts currently located upstairs with the Russian delegation. He knew that this was what had made her more attractive to him. Far more attractive than the blonde and leggy young things that had been made available to them when they arrived.

"The pay's pretty fucking good, I have to say. Else I wouldn't be here."

It was hard to get into this club in the first place. You needed credentials of some kind. That and a lot of money. As broke as Whitehall liked to appear, this was still the go-to location when such a venue was required.

"Is it good enough to put your money where you mouth is?"

"For a couple more drinks? Sure."

"I won't have to guess what _you're_ going to drink, I take it."

"No, you're right, I keep things simple. In that department, at least."

"Simple being the most expensive Speyside single malt," she concluded, choosing not to take note of his somewhat salacious suggestion.

"Correct. But rest assured that your taxpayer's money's in safe hands. There's no Ragnvald, so I had to settle for the 18 years."

She frowned once more at the mention of where his money was coming from, but this time she didn't hesitate to try and extract some information out of him.

"You don't look the civil servant type," she said.

"That's because I'm not," a pause, "not really," he amended, aware of the startling fact that he didn't want to lie to her. That it was okay to be truthful, for once. _Who would she fucking tell, after all?_ This realisation strangely relieved him.

"You work for the government, then?" At his raised eyebrows, she replied, "It wasn't that hard to guess with the four Russian dignitaries upstairs. And they seemed to know what they were doing, it's not the first time they've been to a place like this."

To his own shame, Malcolm lowered his gaze to his empty glass once more.

"Wasn't I the one supposed to play the twenty-question game?" he wondered out loud, feeling that the conversation was slipping away from him.

"We often get _your lot_. Pretty high-up people sometime, too. With this place being so upscale and hushed up, journalists tend to make themselves scarce." Malcolm smiled at the irony of her words in his presence. But she was right – he'd selected this place for that particular reason. No nosey hacks would be waiting for them at the door to snap some embarrassing pictures.

"But I'm guessing those lads aren't very high-up. Otherwise, there would be a couple of bodyguards sitting there instead of you," she added with a small, victorious smile.

"What makes you think I'm not a bodyguard?" he asked, and she pursed her lips at his obvious jest.

"If nothing else, the suit gave you away."

"How come?"

"Bodyguards don't wear such nice suits," she supplied. "not the ones who work for the government, at least. Those who work for footballers on the other hand...maybe. But I'm pretty sure that's not the case, here," she added while pointing at the stairs. The delegation was as far from a football team as you could probably get in the appearance department.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he said, although he wasn't sorry at all. He didn't really like the image of her having _fun_ with some young brainless athlete. _Where the fuck was this coming from? _She could shag whoever she liked, as far as he was concerned._ And she probably did. _It was kind of her job, no matter how PC the word 'escort' might sound.

"No great loss for me," she elaborated, although Malcolm could identify some resentment in her statement. It wasn't her fault if the Russkies didn't have any taste in women whatsoever. Although he certainly wouldn't tell her that. It wasn't his place, and she was a big girl. _Also, it meant that she had been able to come downstairs and talk to him_.

"So, how about that drink then? I'm still waiting," she huffed, her eyes finding his once again over the bar. But Malcolm wouldn't let her change the subject so easily.

"You could always try your chance with the other sad fucks sitting in this room. Maybe one of them will take pity on you."

His words had been meant to hurt – and he was usually very good at that - yet to his dismay she smiled genuinely. As though he'd brought her comfort instead. How very odd.

"You're not getting rid of me so easily. And you still owe me that drink."

"I don't _owe _you anything."

"Oh no? Then why are you still talking to me? If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were changing your mind about going upstairs with me."

She'd slid closer to him while talking, and Malcolm realised that the space that used to separate them had all but disappeared. If he wasn't careful, she'd soon be aware of the effect she was having on him. And he didn't want that.

"Perhaps you _don't_ know any better," he said, immediately regretting his words. He raised his eyes towards the bottles lining the bar so that he wouldn't see her reaction on her face. He still managed to catch her sigh, and the silence that followed was oppressive. He tried to distract himself by listing all the calls he was supposed to make the next morning, and the meetings he was to attend. That usually did the trick in uncomfortable situations, but not this time. At the very least, he had hoped that the girl - _woman_ – would have shrunk away from him. But she did the opposite, and he felt her arm brushing lightly against his on the table top.

"Who are you?" she asked him quietly, and her surprisingly tender tone made him turn his head in her direction. _God_, she was really close, now. Her eyes were a deep chocolate brown and her nose looked funny - funny in a very charming way.

"You said you weren't the driver or the bodyguard but that you were still somehow responsible for the Russians upstairs. You said you worked for the government but that you weren't a civil servant, not really."

"I didn't _say _any of that. You just guessed it."

"So I did."

They stayed silent once more, but the atmosphere was less sombre this time. He kept his arm where it was and she didn't move hers. Malcolm took it as a good sign.

"Well, I'm the man who's buying you a drink," he eventually supplied.

"Can I just say that you're not very good at this job? I'm still waiting."

"I haven't decided what to get you, yet."

"Sounds ominous." He smirked. "But then, I'm the one who's been asking most of the questions. What are you waiting for?"

"Again with the fucking questions." It was her turn to smile. Malcolm tried not to be distracted by the dimples appearing on her cheeks.

"I think I know what I'm going to order for you," he eventually told her, his tone resolute and his eyes boldly staring at hers. "But first I'm going to tell you why I made that choice." She stayed quiet and looked at him expectantly.

"I think you are a great liar," her smile froze. "I think you like to be in control. I think you like to pretend to like things that are predictable, when you don't. I think you like to have the upper hand. I think that you like being in charge. But I think you can still be tempted to try just about anything if the arguments manage to convince you. And I think that it probably means that I'll regret not taking you upstairs."

He paused, and Malcolm could tell that they were both holding their breaths.

"I think that deep inside, you're very much aware that you're more intelligent and more beautiful than any of the other girls working here. And I think that that knowledge isn't always easy for you, but that you still enjoy it - that power and superiority you have. Definitely more than you should. I think that it most likely means that you are in fact a right mess, but you're very good at not letting it on. I _don't _think that something horrible happened to you when you were a kid, because that would be so cliché in a place like this. And I don't think you would be there if that were the case. No, I think you have a very ordinary background, but that you absolutely crave for the extraordinary. I think that you longed for the unpredictable in your predictable life."

Her scowl was more pronounced now, and he knew that he had to speed things along if he wanted her to still be there at the end of his speech.

"So I think that you would drink something that is both common and uncommon. Something that can be found in any bar but requires some craft. I could go boring and order you some wine, but that would have to be red wine. And let's be honest, I don't think that this place would be the right venue. I could go flashy and order some Champagne, but why the fuck would I do that? That's what every man – or woman - is probably ordering for you here. So I guess that it's going to be a cocktail, but obviously not a _girly _one. Because you're definitely not a girl, and you definitely want to be taken seriously. No fucking Cosmo or Mojito for you. No. You want something bold but not gaudy. Something that reminds you that you're an adult drinking alcohol and not a child drinking fruit juice. Something like you. Something sweet and sour and inflexible."

Not taking his eyes off hers, he called for the barman.

"I'd like another whisky. And she would like a Bloody Mary."

"Oh, so your usual then, Clara?"

Carnal was the only adjective Malcolm could think of to describe the look she was now giving him. But the biggest surprise came when she didn't throw her drink at him when it arrived.

"So who are you then? Now that you've finally bought me this drink."

He didn't answer, but clinked his glass to hers.


End file.
